


The Heart Is Hard To Translate

by vampirejanuary



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (mostly), 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, and jon takes so long to notice, jon please look after yourself better i'm begging you, martin's love language is acts of service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27976524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirejanuary/pseuds/vampirejanuary
Summary: 5 ways Martin let Jon know he loved him+1 time Jon (finally) returned the favour
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 160





	The Heart Is Hard To Translate

**Author's Note:**

> this was an absolute nightmare to write, but i've finally got it into something i'm (mostly) happy with. hope you enjoy :)
> 
> (the timeline of this fic is really vague sorry if it's not actually canon compliant in places)
> 
> title from all this and heaven too by florence + the machine

Martin kept making tea for Jon.

Every day, he would knock on Jon’s office door, and then come in to put a fresh mug on his desk.

This doesn’t seem like it would be a problem; it was good tea, and honestly Jon’s throat tended to get a bit sore after recording statements all day. But for some reason, it was bothering Jon.

Most days, Jon would ignore Martin. Not _completely_ ; he’d look up from his work and nod, but he was often too distracted to say anything. On these days, Martin would simply smile, then leave as quietly as he’d arrived.

Some days, particularly after the more… _draining_ statements, Jon would snap at Martin. Nothing too rude, this was a workplace after all, but some small admonishment about a dead end in his research, or a complaint about being interrupted during very important work. A little unnecessary, perhaps, but nothing outright _mean_.

Those days, Martin would still smile, but it was… _off_ somehow. Jon had never understood the phrase “his smile didn’t reach his eyes” until he saw Martin’s smile on days like that. It seemed forced. Worst of all, he never seemed angry, or indignant. Only resigned, as if it was something to be expected, something he _deserved_.

The first few times, Jon hadn’t noticed this broken smile. It was only when he looked up at Martin’s face after a particularly harsh warning not to spill tea on important documents that he realised something wasn’t right. And once he’d noticed, he couldn’t _stop_ noticing.

Jon didn’t like how that sad little smile made him feel.

But he was tired, and the archives were a mess, and there was always that feeling, that sense of being _watched_ that he just couldn’t seem to shake. So he frowned at Martin, and he insisted that the statements were all nonsense, and he ignored all the bad feelings because there are more _important_ things to be worried about god damn it.

Then one day, Jon smiled at Martin as he brought his daily mug of tea. It had been a long day, and a longer night, then another long day, and Jon was slowly starting to lose his grip on reality. He wasn’t quite thinking properly, and so when Martin knocked on his office door he smiled tiredly and waved him in.

And Martin beamed at him.

And Jon’s heart fluttered.

Later, after _almost_ a full night’s sleep, Jon remembered that Martin had blushed at his smile, had smiled in return for the whole time he was in Jon’s office, had been smiling again every time Jon saw him for the rest of the day. Jon ignored the memories of his own blush, chose to blame it on sleep deprivation and nothing more.

But he did smile at Martin a lot more often after that.

It still bothered him, though. Why would Martin keep bringing him tea after how rude he’d always been?

Jon was sleep-deprived again when he finally asked. Normally, he wouldn’t have dared, for fear that drawing attention to it would make Martin realise how foolish he was. Make Martin stop bringing him tea every day.

“Why do you bother?”

Martin blushed again, and Jon ignored how it made him feel.

“I’m sorry?”

His hand paused on its way to put the mug on the desk.

“I’m always so rude to you, Martin. Why bother,” he gestured at the tea, “being so _nice_?”

Martin smiled, a soft, shy thing. His blush had lessened somewhat, going from embarrassment to… something else.

“I don’t mind.” At Jon’s expression, he laughed, “Really, Jon. Not for you.”

Jon was in an unusually good mood for the rest of the day.

***

Jon was exhausted.

It felt like days since he’d last slept, but he just _couldn’t_. There were so many statements to record, sheets of paper piled up on his desk looming in the dim light of his lamp like leering academics, waiting for him to slip up, to finally prove himself unworthy of his head archivist position.

It had been a while since he’d stayed overnight at the archives. An unfortunate side-effect of Martin’s… housing predicament was that the bed in the archives now had a permanent occupant, so Jon was forced to go home to sleep. Because of this, he’d taken to simply staying later and later at work.

And tonight, the time had _definitely_ gotten away from him.

A glance up at the clock with bleary eyes told him it was almost 5 am. Oh well, no point in going home now. It certainly wasn’t Jon’s _first_ all-nighter and he was sure he could power through until 7, when the nearest coffee shop to the archives opened.

So he clicked on his tape recorder, and started reading another statement. He was certain this one would’ve recorded on his laptop with no issues, but better safe than sorry. It was always such a hassle to re-record those troublesome statements.

Jon jolted awake from a dream about a haunted bicycle.

The tape recorder was still whirring quietly, and a glance at the clock told Jon that it was mid-afternoon.

_Shit._

Everyone else must have arrived by now. But they hadn’t woken him up, which could mean one of two things: either they hadn’t noticed that he’d been asleep (Jon hoped this was the case) or-

Jon stood up quickly, intending to rush to the toilets to check what Tim written on his face _this_ time, and his blanket slipped off his shoulders.

_Blanket?_

He _certainly_ hadn’t had a blanket when he’d fallen asleep mid-statement. And this blanket was a thick woollen thing that looked to be hand-knitted. Definitely not one of the blankets Jon usually kept in the archives for his overnight stays.

 _How did_ that _get there?_

He was distracted from his musing by a knock at the door. Martin peeked his head round the door, a mug in his hand and a soft smile on his face.

“Hey,” he moved forwards to set the mug in front of Jon, “How are you- oh no you don’t have to cover your face, I uh, I stopped Tim from drawing on you.”

“Thank you, Martin,” he sipped his tea, “I don’t know how you managed _that_ , though. I’ve never been able to stop him from doing something once he’s set his mind on it.”

Martin blushed slightly, “Oh, uh, it’s not really anything special, I just, um,” he tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and _why did Jon find that endearing?_ , “I found something else to distract him with.”

Jon hummed, “I’ll have to remember that one.”

Martin smiled again (not that Jon was counting his smiles or anything) and turned to leave. For some reason, Jon found that he didn’t _want_ him to go. When did _that_ happen?

“Wait-” He stopped at the door and Jon forgot what he’d been going to say for a moment, “Uh, do you know where this blanket came from?”

Martin went bright pink (it wasn’t adorable at _all_ , Jon absolutely did not think Martin was _cute_ shut up) and squeaked. “Oh! That was- Well it’s actually _mine_ , I uh… Well you looked- I didn’t want you to be _cold_ , and-”

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon smiled, and Martin blushed even _more_ , “It’s… it’s nice.”

Apparently, that was the right thing to say, as Martin was positively _beaming_ for the rest of the day (not that Jon was paying any attention to _that_ , of course).

That evening, Jon replayed the tape that he’d been using when he’d fallen asleep.

It took some time, but eventually he found the recording of Tim and Martin finding him that morning.

The door clicked open.

“Hey, boss, did you stay overnight again? You _know_ Martin will-”

Then, quieter this time: “Oh hell yeah.”

The door closed again, and there were a few minutes of silence, presumably whilst Tim went to find a marker to draw on Jon’s face with. When he returned, he had Martin in tow.

“-not fair, _plus_ he’s our _boss_.”

“All’s fair in love and war, babes. This’ll definitely teach him not to sleep at work again. I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“Well, yeah but-”

“You’re right though, he _is_ our boss…”

“So you _won’t_ draw on his face?”

“So I won’t draw any _dicks_ on his face. Everything else is fair game.”

Martin sighed, “ _Tim_.”

“Oh come _on_ , Martin. Don’t you think he’d look good with a moustache?”

There was another pause, then Tim spoke up again: “Oh _Martin_!”

Martin squeaked, and stuttered something unintelligible.

“Well, Martin, you’ve convinced me. I’ll leave his handsome little face alone-”

“Oh my _god_ Tim shut up I swear down-”

Tim laughed, the door clicked open and shut, and it was silent again.

About half an hour later, the door clicked open again. There was a soft rustling noise, and Martin murmured, “Wouldn’t want you to get cold.”

Then there was nothing until Jon woke up.

If Jon listened to that last little bit more than once, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

***

 _Christ_ it had been so long since Jon had had a moment to _breathe._

These last few weeks had been an absolute _nightmare,_ and things just kept _happening_ without giving him any time to process. How many times had he been kidnapped now? More than was normal for a man of his age, definitely.

For now, he was back at the institute, sitting at his desk and glaring a hole in the wall opposite him. Already he could feel the familiar itch, that eagerness to read – no, _consume_ \- another statement, but he was trying not to think about it.

He was trying not to think about _anything,_ actually. A horrible headache was pounding at his temples, as though there was something inside his skull trying desperately to break its way out. These days it felt like he had a headache more often than not, one that all the paracetamol in the world couldn’t chase away.

_How is it I can get used to being kidnapped every ten seconds but can’t ignore my stupid headache?_

Pain aside, Jon was also avoiding thinking for… other reasons.

Examining his life too closely might tear it apart even further. If he took a moment to actually stop and think about the past month or so it would open the floodgates to dealing with _everything._

No, Jon was solving his problems the way he did best: ignoring them and hoping for the best.

He had neither the time nor energy to deal with a mental breakdown right now. Especially not at the Institute, where everyone seemed to despise him. An audience was the last thing he needed.

As if the universe had heard this last thought and decided to play a cruel and twisted joke on Jon ( _as if my life could possibly get any_ worse _right now_ ) there was a knock at the door.

It was Martin, because _of course_ it was Martin, damn him and his stupid ‘caring about Jon’s wellbeing’ nonsense.

“Hey, uh, are you okay?”

Jon burst into tears.

Everything that had happened had just been building up and building up until all it took was that one simple question to surprise Jon into letting it all out. He was sobbing, a loud, ugly noise, and tears and snot were already starting to stream down his face, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Surprisingly, rather than panicking in typical Martin fashion, the man just shut the office door, and strode purposefully over to Jon’s desk. Jon barely registered it when Martin wrapped him up in a big bear hug, rocking him gently back and forth and letting him cry into his shoulder.

Eventually, Jon’s sobs subsided, and he was able to more clearly take note of what was happening. _Oh Christ, Martin’s hugging me, shit._ But his arms were warm and comfortable, and Jon was strangely unwilling to pull away.

Unfortunately, Martin had no such reservations, and sensing that the worst was over, he pulled away and asked again, “Are you okay?”

Smiling weakly, Jon replied, “I ruined your cardigan.”

“You – What? Oh, no, don’t worry about that.”

“I have a headache.” The words came out smaller than Jon expected, his voice quiet and still watery from his recent cry-fest. Still, Martin frowned in concern, then stood up. Jon pouted at the loss of contact, then realised what he was doing and stopped.

“I’ll get you a paracetamol, wait here, I’ll be right back.”

And then Jon was alone again. Crying had only worsened his the pounding in his skull, and he felt even more exhausted than he had before, both physically and mentally.

Still, he was refusing to stop and actually process the mess that was his life. When Martin came back, he’d want to _talk_ about things, and that was probably the _last_ thing Jon wanted to do. Talking about things made them real.

 _It’s_ already _real, Jon, you can’t keep ignoring all of your problems._ The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Martin, but he steadfastly ignored it, and peeked his head out into the corridor. Martin was nowhere to be seen.

Much like everything else, Jon ignored the stab of guilt in his chest as he snuck out of his office before Martin could come back.

***

Everything was wrong.

He’d almost died, or maybe he _had_ died, and good _god_ he was trying his hardest not to think about what that might mean for his humanity, but either way he’d come back only to find that everything was _wrong_.

Basira was angry, Melanie was _angrier_ , Martin had all but disappeared, and Daisy and Tim were…

Point is, everything had gone wrong and Jon hadn’t even been there to stop it. Although, given his track record of ‘stopping’ things from going wrong, perhaps it was for the best that he hadn’t been there.

And now that he actually _was_ there he felt _useless._

So he did what he always did when he felt useless: he threw himself into his work.

He tried his best to ignore the strange… _hunger_ he felt for the statements. After recording one, he always felt refreshed, revitalised somehow. More so than he did after an actual meal, or a nap. So he stopped eating, and he stopped sleeping.

Of course he’d always gotten by with very little sleep, in fact it was almost a _relief_ to be able to pull a week of all-nighters with almost no negative consequences.

That sense of bone-deep exhaustion never seemed to leave even when he _was_ well-rested, so it was easier to just ignore it and power through than it was to keep trying in vain to sleep it off. And he was more productive this way, too.

Really, in spite of everything else that had gone wrong, Jon felt better than he had in _years_.

Or so he’d thought, until he collapsed on the walk from the toilet to his office.

When he came to, he was slumped in his desk chair, a familiar blanket around his shoulders. His first thought was _Oh no, not again,_ then _Martin?_

Sadly, Martin did not appear to be in the room, although the air was chilled and there was a slight condensation on his glasses, suggesting that he’d been here recently.

“Martin?”

There was no response. _Oh well, it was worth a try._

Martin must have carried him here after he collapsed (Jon absolutely did _not_ blush at the thought of Martin carrying him bridal style to his office, that would be completely embarrassing) and then put the blanket around his shoulders and… cooked him a meal?

Yes, on his desk there sat a tupperware tub with some sort of pasta inside. Jon pressed his hand to the side, and yep, it was still warm. Carefully, he peeled the sticky note off the lid, not wanting to accidentally rip it, and read the words scrawled on it in Martin’s familiar handwriting.

_You should eat more! Just because I’m not there doesn’t mean you can stop taking care of yourself >:( _

A sudden warmth bloomed in Jon’s chest; the chill of the room seemed to have lessened significantly. Gently, as if it were something fragile, Jon stuck the sticky note on the inside cover of one of his notebooks.

Silently musing about Gerry’s scepticism at the thought of weaponising love against the Fears, Jon pulled the pasta towards him and started eating. If Martin isolating himself from his friends was pushing him into the Lonely, it would stand to reason that his friends would be able to pull him back out of it. Doesn’t that count as ‘the power of love’? Gerry had said it himself to that woman, Andrea Nunis, in Italy: think of your loved ones.

Perhaps people could be used as anchors against the Lonely. Perhaps Jon would be able to pull Martin out if he got in too deep with Peter Lukas.

He spent the rest of the afternoon lost in thought, and then drifted off to an uneasy sleep that evening. He hoped that somehow Martin would know he was taking care of himself, that somehow it would reach him out there in the loneliness he was losing himself to. Hoped it might bring a warm smile to a cold face.

Thinking back on it, he slowly realised that he’d never even considered the possibility that anyone but Martin could have carried him to his office and cooked him pasta. It was sad, really, to think that Martin was the only one left who cared about him and he wasn’t even really _there_ any more.

***

Things were different now. After months of missing Martin, he was _here_ , holding Jon’s hand.

Things were also an absolute _mess_. Peter Lukas was dead, at least, but they didn’t have much else good going on for them. As long as Trevor and Julia were still out there, Jon was in danger, not to mention that the archives would soon be crawling with police.

But with Martin holding his hand and smiling like _that_ , Jon couldn’t find it in him to care.

“Ugh, you two are disgusting,” Basira looked grim, and Jon didn’t mention her red-rimmed eyes. Whatever had happened to Daisy… it can’t have been good.

“So, what happens now?” Martin seemed surprisingly calm, and Jon couldn’t quite tell whether it was some leftover apathy from his time in the Lonely, or if _everything_ that had happened had just desensitised him to the weirdness that was their life now. He honestly didn’t know which was worse.

Basira sighed, and looked around the institute’s reception area. “Scotland. Daisy has – had – a safehouse up there. I’ll text you the address, Jon.”

As she pulled her phone out and started typing, Jon sank into Martin’s side. He smiled at how quickly Martin’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, at how _right_ it felt there. He leant down and pressed a kiss to Jon’s temple.

“Are we gonna stop off at our flats before we leave? I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to pick up,” Jon hummed as Martin’s breath tickled his face, then he registered what he was saying.

“What? You’re not-” he twisted around in Martin’s arms to look up at him, “You don’t have to come with me, you know.”

Martin rolled his eyes fondly, “You’re not getting rid of me _that_ easily, Jon.”

“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, I just wanted to make sure you knew,” Martin tucked a strand of hair behind Jon’s ear and his brain short-circuited for a second, “Uh, that is, it might be dangerous, and I can’t ask you to risk-”

Jon’s brain completely melted into mush as Martin pressed a kiss to his forehead and said, “You don’t have to _ask_ me to do anything. I _want_ to come with you.”

“Uh…”

“Unless you don’t _want_ me there, sorry, I didn’t think-”

Jon stood on his tiptoes and shut him up with a kiss. “Of course I want you there, Martin.”

***

Jon lightly traces shapes on Martin’s palm.

They’re in bed, cozy in old pyjamas and mouths still minty from toothpaste and sweet with kisses. Jon is sprawled across Martin’s chest, head resting on his shoulder.

Martin smiles fondly down at him, and _oh _what Jon wouldn’t give to see that smile every day from now into forever.__

____

____

“What are you thinking about?” He seems almost shy to ask, which is ridiculous because Jon would do and say anything, would lay his soul bare, for the man in his arms. Or, more accurately, the man whose arms he’s in. Point is, they’re cuddling and it’s everything Jon ever dreamed of.

 _But what_ is _he thinking about?_

He lightly runs his fingers over the knuckles of Martin’s hands, hands that have held him and cared for him and _loved_ him when nobody else would.

And _oh_ he’s lost, drowning, in the face of all the ways Martin has quietly loved him over the years. He hadn’t noticed it at the time, but now he knows, more than he knows anything else, that Martin has loved him, calm and constant and caring, through everything.

It hurts, for a moment. It hurts to think about Martin’s unnoticed “I love you”s, the tiny signs that Jon didn’t know how to read, and the signs that he missed altogether because he simply wasn’t looking for them.

In the face of all that love, it seems impossible to be deserving. To be loved so unconditionally and for so long, without giving a scrap of love back in return, seems so immensely cruel. It is vast and painful, and it could be a Fear of its own: the fear of being unworthy, undeserving of love and affection. The fear that he’s hurt Martin irreparably by not showing his love in the same ways. The fear that it was _him_ who pushed Martin so far into the Lonely.

But Martin is still smiling, and Jon knows that that is ridiculous.

Never in a million grand gestures could Jon beat Martin’s years of devotion, but love is not a competition, and grand gestures have never been Jon’s style anyway.

Martin is still waiting patiently for a response, still smiling as Jon tries to formulate an answer. Maybe he could never make Martin understand how much his love means to him, but he can make sure Martin feels loved in return.

So his fingers still on Martin’s hand, and he shifts slightly, drawing up so their faces are level. He grins, and Martin’s smile widens.

They’re both still smiling when Jon presses their lips together, and whispers,

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> the ending of this was actually gonna be muCH angstier but i decided canon is already too angsty and went for fluff instead you're welcome


End file.
